


Your sugar-coated decadence makes me sick

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Decadence, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Purebloods (Harry Potter), Sort Of, Stream of Consciousness, infatuations, marshmellows, rich people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 12:30:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17467568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Abraxas was simply obscene.





	Your sugar-coated decadence makes me sick

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive this fic for being so long and so meandering, I never intended for it to be either of those things, it just sort of happened, sorry.

Abraxas made money look cheap and class overrated. Even when he was just lying there on the bed, he looked obscene, head tilted back, the top buttons of his shirt undone, collarbones on display to anyone who cared to look. It was completely indecent, and yet Tom couldn’t take his eyes off him. He’d been trying to read, but then Abraxas would shift, and all the sheets would crinkle, and Tom would look up, and just catch a sliver of immaculate skin, and he’d have to use all his will to tear his eyes away. He didn’t know why he couldn’t stop staring. Abraxas looked just like anyone else. He had the same form, the same features, the same expressions, just like every other human being ever, and Tom had no problem avoiding their gaze. Yet, Abraxas was different. Perhaps it was the money. That sickening perfume that clung to him, announcing his arrival and lingering long after his departure. Everything Abraxas did reeked of an unnatural wealth. Exemplified perfectly by how he was lying now, sprawled across the bed, arms outstretched, sinking into an impossibly soft duvet, neck exposed, looking so absolutely obscene whilst he sipped champagne. It hurt just to look at him. Hurt to be anywhere near him, but Tom couldn’t help but be close to him, they did everything together. Everyone said they were a mismatched pair, each filling the other’s gaps, completing each other. For where Abraxas had polish, and a natural sophistication, Tom had simple authenticity and raw intelligence. People were inclined to think that he was the prowess, and Abraxas the sugar that made even the most distasteful things sweet, and perhaps that wasn’t far from the truth. 

Tom wasn’t sure what he wanted. He would have liked to say, to take advantage of someone else’s vulnerabilities, but he couldn’t help but wonder, whether he shared them. Not in that typical way, where his heart ached so tragically every time their eyes met. More that the only thing he could think about was how much he wanted Abraxas to stop fiddling with his collar. Stop scraping his fingers over his neck and across his shoulder and back into the sheets. Tom didn’t want to do anything exactly, he just wanted Abraxas to stop looking so completely – irresistible, so tantalising, so _available_ and yet so far out of reach. For despite all Abraxas’ pettiness, and all his irritating affluence, he was the closest thing to a friend that Tom was prepared to have, and maybe it was starting to go a little beyond that. He wouldn’t call it love, that was far too sentimental, it was just a limerence, an infatuation, a fascination with everything Abraxas was. It was nothing more, and nothing less, and one day it would pass, and then they could both get on with their lives. But it hadn’t, not yet. Instead, it lingered, swelling until it was almost painful, forever gnawing the edges of his stomach, distracting him from all the important things in the world. Lestrange had said he was obsessed, but what did Lestrange know? Nothing, he knew absolutely nothing; other than the way Tom had stopped mid-sentence once and stared at Abraxas as he walked across the room. When Lestrange had later brought it up, Tom had called that an exception and not the rule, how could he not look at Abraxas when Abraxas was simply so nice to look at? Especially when he was dressed so upmarket, a glamorous reminder of the potential perfection of human bodies. 

Tom had tried to convince himself that was all it was, that he just liked the way Abraxas looked, liked the way he carried himself, liked how he articulated every word. He even liked his accent, so crisp and clear, so obviously forged from the fires of money, from families who burned bank notes just because they could. There was something so powerful in the way Abraxas genuinely had everything he wanted at the tip of his diamond fingers. He could _do_ anything he wanted, _have_ anything he wanted, _be_ anything he wanted, and yet, Abraxas was so apathetic about it all. So casual about the presence of money that its impacts no longer distracted him. In fact, he could hardly seem to bring himself to care what his money was spent on, so long as it was spent. Tom had always assumed that was the standard approach when someone had _so_ much money, but apparently it wasn’t. None of the others were quite so reckless, none of the others cared so little for their own affairs. That was a strange peculiarity of Abraxas alone, and one which made him infinitely more interesting. So very curious and so very marbled with potential. After all, if Abraxas didn’t care how his money was spent, would he really care if someone else controlled the spending of it? Tom suspected not, as long as the arrangement benefitted Abraxas in some way, it would all be perfectly respectable in his eyes. 

Watching Abraxas now it was easy to see why he was described as such a decadent youth; debauched and dissipated with no future beyond his family. The type that read poetry in languages he didn’t understand, simply because it sounded like a glamorous thing to do. The type that was forever twirling his fingers in his hair, and forever licking his lips like they were sugar-coated, and forever indulging himself with other people’s tongues, just because he could. It was absolutely sickening, but Tom would be lying if he didn’t want to know what it felt like. A very small part of him wanted to know whether Abraxas was as sweet as a he looked, or whether that was merely another side to his multifaceted mask. Rosier said he wasn’t sweet at all. She said that Abraxas was all hollow and bitter, a flower-decked coffin with no cadaver. But Rosier wasn’t exactly a reliable witness, something to do with no longer being a permanent feature in Abraxas’ life. She had been downgraded to merely a source of light entertainment for when Abraxas was _particularly_ bored. Tom had seen how it happened. How gradually Abraxas’ smiles had been filled with less and less affection for her, and more for something else he liked, another irresistible thing he thought he could get his perfect pureblood teeth into. It was one of those unnerving smiles, all white teeth and hypnotic eyes, seduction practised to absolute perfection. Tom had observed with, purely academic, interest as people with nervous hands smiled back, embarrassed and intrigued in equal measure. Tom couldn’t remember how many times he’d watched Abraxas reel his prey in, always gentle, respectful, coaxing and cajoling until they finally gave in and _he_ could get what he wanted. Though he hardly wanted anything for long. It was a trait so evident in all Tom’s ‘friends’, they were fixated on something for little more than a week, would live and breathe and die for it, and then it was over, and they’d be throwing it all away and finding something new to quench the infinite boredom that seemed to accompany infinite wealth. Tom had seen how little it took, the speed at which Abraxas’ eyes shifted, even as his fingers crawled up someone’s thighs and his lips dragged over someone’s neck, he had the discourtesy to watch someone else. But Tom wasn’t one to judge, so he just stared at Abraxas’ fingers doing indecent things, and wondered to himself, when was the point people became so disgustingly rich that they no longer cared what other people thought. 

Today it was just the two of them, completely alone, Abraxas’ parents visiting elderly aunts and none of the house elves daring to come upstairs unless summoned. As such it was eerily quiet, only interrupted when Tom turned a page of his book, or Abraxas shifted, causing a quiet rustling to resonate through the room. From this angle, Tom could see Abraxas’ hands, or at least one of them. It was resting, palm upturned beside Abraxas’ face. Such distracting hands, with sharp fingers that look like they could strangle him. There was a certain lure attached to those fingers, especially when he considered what they could do. Although Abraxas never went in for violence, Tom was sure those fingers would look ever so nice wrapped around someone’s throat, introducing them to a much more refined sense of cruelty, filled with malice and spite rather than pure brutality. He was almost tempted to be on the receiving end if it meant letting out all the nastiness that lurked just below Abraxas’ skin. It was always fun to try and wind up Abraxas, tap into the emotional core and fiddle around with all the settings. But he couldn’t quite be bothered today, so he contented himself with watching Abraxas’ pretty, pretty hands without being judged. Once he had glutted himself on those hands, Tom let his eyes wanted further: over Abraxas’ wrists and up his forearm until the fabric of his shirt cut off his view of perfect skin. The only other skin on display with the sliver at his neck. The one Tom wanted to run his tongue all over, and taste Abraxas’ obscene money-drenched body and find the opulence in his infected his heart. Tom wanted to touch him. Wanted to find out whether hands dipped in gold really felt so different, and maybe, just maybe, a little part of him wanted to know whether someone as expensive as Abraxas could get hooked on something as common as him. That’s all it was, a little social experiment to quell the distaste of being poor. It was only natural that Tom should be fascinated by people who were so different, and yet so similar, to himself. Only natural that he should want to taste him. Only natural that he should want to consume him and be consumed by him. Only natural he should want to become him because to be rich was to be in control and to be in control was to fashion the world as he pleased, and to fashion, the world sounded like a dream. That’s how they were in this position really, because of helpless dreams. 

Abraxas opened his eyes abruptly, and Tom hastily returned to his book, turning pages automatically despite not reading the words. He could feel Abraxas’ eyes on him. His heavy gaze was resting on his hands, watching as he turned the pages.  
“You don’t have to pretend to read, you know,” he said, and Tom looked up. Abraxas had curved his spine until he was sitting up, and was now watching him, eyes drenched in pale sunlight, fingers reaching for the glass container of marshmallows that sat on the bed beside him. Tom rolled his eyes, it would be a genuine miracle if anyone could taste anything other than sugar in Abraxas’ blood. Abraxas saw his expression and smiled. “You were turning the pages too fast,” he said.  
“I’m a fast reader.”  
“Not _that_ fast. What does it say anyway?” he said, stretching, arms above his head, and turning to hang his legs off the edge of the bed.  
“If you wanted me to read to you–”  
“I don’t. I just want you to prove to me that you’re actually reading.”  
“What else would I be doing?” said Tom keeping his eyes on Abraxas’ face even as the latter reached over for his glass of champagne because to drink water would too closely align him with the common people.  
“Watching me, perhaps?”  
“You flatter yourself,” Tom said, although he closed his book and rested it on the arm of the chair. Abraxas smiled and placed another marshmallow on his tongue. “Hardly, everyone likes to look at me.”  
“Arrogance isn’t attractive.”  
“It is to you.”  
Tom swallowed. In that single moment the air had shifted, and whether he realised it or not, Abraxas had ushered a new sentiment into the room.  
“What should I be saying then? That I think you are repulsive?” said Tom carefully.  
“So, you were looking at me. Interesting,” Abraxas said licking his fingers, leaving his tongue stained white and a smile on his face. He looked ever so louche, but perhaps that was because sugar was a very elitist drug.

When Abraxas licked the powdered sugar off his lips, Tom averted his eyes. It was vulgar, and licentious and simply pornographic to have to watch, and didn’t Abraxas know it. How he smiled, a hand sliding through his hair and down his face and settling at his chin; fingers tracing his lips. Abraxas’ lips weren’t the first that had interested Tom, that status belonged to Avery. He’d kissed him once, back when he just wanted to know what another person’s lips felt like. The first real kiss had been with Lestrange, late at night when he was bored and tired and unable to sleep. He’d just found Lestrange sitting in the common room by the window, staring into the green-tinted depths of the lake, smiling whenever he saw a lanterneye fish. He’d fucked him not long after because that way Tom could have what he wanted. Maybe it was wrong, but he didn’t really care for such moral speeches. Not when he could make Lestrange stay up with him for hours, lying on the sofa, just listening and watching, occasionally contributing ideas of how the world should be shaped; all with a hypnotic air of indifference to such common qualms. But though they shared that fashionable highbrow apathy, Lestrange was as different to Abraxas as soil was to diamonds. Both were good, both nice, but where Lestrange was deep and rich, cultivating new ideas and forever enriching Tom’s mind, Abraxas was cold and intense. Already so aware of his value that he didn’t bother to try and change himself. Tom shouldn’t have wanted Abraxas, but there was something so intriguing about complete perfection, about that wasteful decadence that Abraxas so amused himself with. It made Tom feel like he was drowning, whereas Lestrange only proved that he could swim. 

Tom realised then that he hadn’t said anything for too long and now Abraxas really was watching him, eyes fixed far too intently. It was an immoral gaze, suggestive, evocative, indicative of all the things that Abraxas wanted to do, without saying any of them. But Abraxas didn’t need to say them, his actions always spoke louder than his words, and he always shied away from subtly. Even now he had that smug smile painted across his face, the one that made him look so hungry, the one that Tom had always seen just before Abraxas deconstructed his victims. Before he wormed his way inside their heads and wrenched out all the pretty things. The things he would forever hoard in the endless caverns of his mind. Tom supposed that was why he liked him, Abraxas was more than willing to be amoral to get what he wanted: deceitful and devious and completely dishonest, and then have the audacity to smile sweetly and speak of his own personal integrity. There was a haunting familiarity to the process, because, of course, Tom did it too. Did it to Lestrange, had done it to Avery, did it to anyone who smiled and held his arm too long. It was so much easier to lie, to give people a fraction of what they wanted, and see their starving eyes yearning for more.  
Abraxas smiled as if he knew exactly what Tom was thinking, maybe he did.  
“Care to come closer,” he said, with all the intentions of a question, whilst making it perfectly clear, it was not in any way an optional request.  
“That better?” said Tom, standing up and taking a single step towards him, one they both knew was woefully inadequate to comply with Abraxas’ request.  
“Are you perverse by design or merely by accident?”  
“By design of course,” Tom said taking a step again, and then another, and another, until he was within a couple of feet of where Abraxas was sitting.  
They observed each other in silence for a moment, as if this was the first time they were meeting, and they hadn’t been associates for years, and they didn’t know each other’s secrets and hadn’t seen each other in every known temperament. Abraxas still looked sickening, even more so up close, when Tom could see how his eyes were glazed and his mouth was red.  
“Care for a marshmallow?” said Abraxas, offering one.  
“I’ll pass, thank you,” said Tom, never taking his eyes away from Abraxas’ decadent mouth, seeing how it stretched around his teeth when he spoke, how it made such lovely shapes that he so wanted to trace.  
“How ascetic of you,” Abraxas said, placing one on his own tongue and slowly drawing it into his mouth.  
“We can’t all be so dissolute, can we.”  
“How insulting,” Abraxas said smiling.

Abraxas reached up and scraped his white pureblood knuckles down Tom’s cheek, fingertips ever so gentle along his jaw. Tom stayed still, forcing himself not to flinch, even though Abraxas’ fingers were cold. He let Abraxas find his way and decide what he actually wanted from him. Abraxas’ fingers stopped half-way down his sternum. Tom could see in his eyes that he wanted a reaction, wanted him to squirm like all the others, blush and be flattered by the attention. But Tom was not like all the others, and Abraxas should know that by now. He should understand that Tom wasn’t going to do things just because they were expected of him. If anything, it made him more determined to stand his ground. Abraxas looked up at him curiously, and then when he received no reaction, his hand continued ever so gently, until it was just the tips of his fingers trailing down Tom’s shirt, not even touching his skin. Abraxas’ fingers came to rest on his belt buckle, nails clinking against the metal, then with a smirk he pulled a little, forcing Tom to take a step closer to him, and another, and another, until he was only a few inches from Abraxas. Tom kept his eyes steady, as, ever so slowly, Abraxas’ neutral expression slid into a smile, and without taking his eyes off Tom, he began to undo the belt. The leather sounded – indecent as it slid slowly over his hips. Reminding Tom of exactly what game he was playing, and exactly who he was playing it with.  
The buckle clunked as it hit the floor. Neither of them bothered to look. Instead, they just stared, eyes chained together by some secret challenge neither of them could remember starting. Though Tom certainly didn’t feel like backing down, to simply divert his eyes was to lose this intricate contest, and he was unwilling to lose, especially to Abraxas’ sugar-stained heart.  
“I’d like you on your knees, Tom,” said Abraxas quietly, he didn’t need to be loud, not when the room was _this_ silent. Tom stared at him for a moment, half in disbelief that Abraxas had actually articulated something that so assertive: asked Tom to see _him_ as king, and himself as just a devotee. It couldn’t have been further from the truth, and yet, Tom found himself sinking to his knees, indulging both them, stringing it all out and reminding Abraxas exactly how disgustingly erotic his request was.  
He was the one looking up now, staring, finding colours he didn’t know existed in Abraxas’ eyes. One of Abraxas’ fingers was drawing a circle over the edge of his clavicle, and one of Tom’s hands was surreptitiously resting on Abraxas’ thigh. They both knew why they were there and yet neither of them could say it. Neither of them could take that final step into a new territory they never believed they would have the opportunity to navigate.  
“What are we going to do now, Tom?” Abraxas said, leaning towards him, mouth a mere inch from his own.  
“Depends on your intentions for me, doesn’t it?” Tom said, still not moving. Abraxas licked his lips, and Tom could feel the warmth of his tongue.  
“Consider my intentions to be entirely dishonourable.” 

Abraxas didn’t kiss him, he only pulled him forward forcing their physical bodies to collide. Tom nearly jolted away at the feeling of another person touching him, but Abraxas only smiled and ran his fingers down his spine, as if to calm him.  
“No need to be nervous.”  
“I’m not.”  
“Is that so?” Abraxas said, suddenly pulling him up onto the bed and pushing him onto his back, “are you nervous now?” he repeated, head cocked to the side, thighs each side of Tom’s waist, ensuring he couldn’t move unless he asked, nicely. He looked genuinely interested at whatever Tom’s answer was going to be.  
“I am frankly unimpressed, but also I’m not scared of you, Abraxas.”  
“Good, I’m sick of people being scared,” said Abraxas as he curved over him, mouth sampling the edge of his jaw before pausing to speak again. “If you think you’re using me for your own gain, though Tom, then you are very much mistaken,” he murmured between kisses.  
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”  
“We both know you would. I bet you’ve been scheming for weeks about how to do this.”  
Tom wished it had been that well planned out, and not an impromptu occurrence all because Abraxas had caught him watching his obscenity. “I haven’t actually,” he said, pushing Abraxas away enough for him to sit up, but keeping him close enough that he didn’t object to the change.  
“But you are now.”  
Tom smirked, Abraxas was more intelligent than some people gave him credit for, he knew how Machiavellian minds worked, probably because he had one himself, and was simply less inclined to use it because he was lazy.  
“I would prefer to think of it more as a mutually beneficial relationship.”  
“And what would that involve, if I may ask?” Abraxas said, hands scraping down Tom’s waist and fiddling with the edge of his shirt, clearly starting to think of moving beyond just talking. Tom watched as his elegant fingers fiddled with the material, at once trying to hide, and so obviously display his impatience.  
“You, doing whatever you want – to me,” Tom said, his fingertips just brushing over Abraxas’ scalp. It felt a terribly intimate thing to do before they’d even kissed, not that Abraxas was complaining, he was still playing the shirt’s hem.  
“Well I like it so far, but you wouldn’t do something like that out of sheer good will, would you now Tom? So fancy sharing what you get out of it.”  
“A favour, every once in a while.”  
Abraxas looked up at him sceptically, “you’ll have to convince me to give you that.”  
“Well, I think you’ll find I can be very… persuasive,” he murmured, stroking down Abraxas’ indecent neck and waiting for the acquiescence he knew was coming. Abraxas wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation of having a new toy to play with, particularly one so _willing_.  
“Persuade me then.”  
Tom pressed their mouths together and smiled when Abraxas kissed him back. 

Abraxas was sweet, but only superficially. Beneath that saccharine surface, he was sour. Soaked in his own transgressions and dripping with a delectable vice. He tasted so good on Tom’s tongue and felt so good under his fingers: all gentle lines, gracious curves he could trace with his nails, he could touch him forever. But Abraxas was impatient, and his dissolute fingers quickly hooked themselves into Tom’s now empty belt loops and slid over his skin. Abraxas somehow made the act of stripping him of his clothes feel like he was peeling back his skin and revealing the world all his deepest secrets. But two could play at that. So, Tom skimmed his own hands down Abraxas’ waist, resting on his hips before slithering under his shirt and touching his pretty pureblood skin. Abraxas didn’t seem to care, all he wanted was to kiss the corners of Tom’s mouth, lure his tongue out and play a duet. It was nice, but Tom couldn’t help but notice the keenness in his kisses, the distinct eagerness in his eyes and enthusiasm under his skin. Abraxas had thought about this far more than he would ever admit, and Tom _had_ to let his mind wander. Casting back to every single meeting, feeling Abraxas’ gaze lingering, his smile remaining, his hands delaying moving for longer than they should. The eyes Tom saw in his mind stripped him back to his bones, and he wondered how many furtive glances he’d missed, how many times Abraxas had waited and waited and never received what he really wanted. Tom pulled Abraxas closer then, dragging his shirt over his skin and touching every bone and every muscle; committing to memory the sumptuous flavour of his skin. Abraxas flashed him a smile and, for a second, the only thing Tom could think of was Lestrange, and the feeling of his own head against the wall as Lestrange’s negligent lips scraped against his thighs. Despite their differences Tom couldn’t help but make comparisons: Lestrange was sharper and rougher, not particularly caring if he left behind bruises on his hips or half-moons in his shoulders, Abraxas though... Abraxas was devastatingly slow in a way that had Tom’s heart thudding far too quickly. It made his breathing unsteady, made him want to beg, mouth mumbling against Abraxas’ neck, but Tom didn’t do things like that. Instead, he just twisted his fingers further into the duvet, adding a scratching sound to the pleasant symphony of skin sliding on skin.  
Tom couldn’t help but tilted his neck upward, back arching, arms above his head, hooked under the pillow.  
“Keep your eyes on me, Tom,” Abraxas was murmuring much closer to his ear than he expected him to be. Tom swallowed and forced his eyes open again. Looking up at Abraxas and his cold irises and his cheeks flushed a degenerate pink.  
“Don’t ever take your eyes off me, Tom. Please,” he said, voice cracking and giving Tom a glimpse of the rawness that lay immaculate behind all the pseudo-sophistication. Abraxas could pretend what he liked, but it was obvious it was all getting to him. The way he moved his hips, no longer so smooth, but shaky and staggered as if he couldn’t concentrate, and the way he’d managed to cough up politeness, and, of course, the obvious signs. That pretty flush that spilled down his neck, and the loudness of his breathing all hot and desperate in Tom’s ear.

Lying forehead to forehead felt far more intimate than anything in the world. The feeling of both their hands fumbling blindly down Tom’s stomach. Abraxas letting him lead the way, feel the heat of his own skin and the unfamiliarity of his hipbones when someone else was lying between them. Feel how his mouth went so dry and his heart thudded so hard when his own fingers touched his cock, curling around it and moaning so decadently. Abraxas was almost cautious, fingers fluttering, stroking up and down and up and down so slowly before wrapping his fingers around Tom’s, making everything heavier and _that_ much more intense. Sliding their fingers back and forth ever, ensuring Tom was breathless and his head was spinning, and his stomach was twisting and twisting and twisting until it was wound so tight. Then he was shuddering and his body curling in on itself, Abraxas moaning obscene promises in his ear. 

Lying still, heads turned to the side, just looking at each other, Tom was more captivated than ever, and apparently, Abraxas was too. He had proved, in a surprisingly short amount of time that it was possible to buy such expensive things, ever so cheaply, possible that people could be persuaded to part with their wealth simply because something pretty caught their eye. That was all good to know, but maybe even more than that, it felt good to know that Abraxas also had an unquenchable obsession with what should have been his antithesis. Good to know that Abraxas tasted as rich as he looked and good to know that they were rather more similar than perhaps he’d hoped, and good to know that someone else understood the convolutions of his mind.  
Quite simply Tom liked lying with someone who made money look cheap and class overrated, someone who knew what it was like to dream of things they shouldn’t want, someone who was so obscene. Tom just had to admit to himself, that he liked lying with Abraxas lodged between his hipbones.

**Author's Note:**

> It has been so long since I last wrote this pairing, and I'd forgotten just how much I love these guys. However, it also means I'm not so sure about the tone and characterisation, so sorry if it was a bit off.


End file.
